


In The Leaves

by GuardianOfTheGates



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fortune Telling, Gen, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:38:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4267086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuardianOfTheGates/pseuds/GuardianOfTheGates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stroll on a summer's afternoon steers the detective and his doctor into a very curious establishment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The July Prompfest over on Watson's Woes.
> 
> Prompt # 3: Picture of skull in dried leaf.
> 
>  
> 
> ***

Our mission that afternoon was to be a grim one, were the information I managed to garner regarding our opponent earlier that morning anything to judge by. Watson and I had, over the course of our long an intimate acquaintance, faced far greater adversaries, both in regards to intellectualism and the grandiosity of their schemes. A dangerous man, our quarry, though why I was so uneasy in my mind remained an enigma, for had us two old hunters not taken down more dangerous game before?

Even so, from the instant this man strode into our humble sanctum, some intangible aspect of his appearance engendered within my breast a cold dread that instantly set all my senses on the alert. I am not a fanciful man, and yet, I’d that sudden, cold thrill down my spine which, in the days of witch burnings and rampant irrationality, was said to be the awareness of someone walking over one’s grave. 

A distinctly, absurd, mediaeval notion, but I admit to deliberately subjecting this particular miscreant with a scrutinising eye, when only moments ago I had made the error of dismissing this whimsical little case as more a diversion than anything worthy of my efforts.

Distracted as I was, and of a mind to send Watson on some fool’s errand to spare him the risk he would no doubt run his head into, it is small wonder then that as we strolled companionably down the Edgware Road on so fine a summer‘s day, we missed our intended turn on Little Ryder Street. A more common occurrence than the doctor will ever let on in his fanciful accounts of that art which I have elevated the science of deduction to.

Nevertheless, in spite of my encyclopaedic knowledge of London, this particular offshoot street of the Edgware Road we had inadvertently turned onto was not only unfamiliar, but like nothing my ramblings around town had ever uncovered before. That alone piqued my curiosity. Watson’s nonsensical enchantment with this lonely quarter, however, was what sealed my fate, for he insisted most enthusiastically that we make a cursory exploration before setting back upon our task. 

As we strolled further onwards down that grime encrusted stone alleyway, it became apparent why this time-forgotten nook could neither be found on any formal map, nor in my own brain-attic compendium of London’s seediest by-ways - it was, for all intents and purposes, devoid of aught but rats, and eventually led into a dead end. So much for afternoon walks! 

Watson, I noted, having growled my frustrations at the brick impediment before me, was engaged in contemplating a section of wall not more than a few paces to my rear. 

“Holmes? Surely we can spare a moment?” he implored in that tone I am certain he has deduced I become more unable to refuse as our years of shared habitation accumulate.

I was on the verge of informing the doctor it would be prudent to make an appointment with his ophthalmologist, as nothing occupied that space with the exception of a stretch of crumbling stone edifice. That is, I would have said as much if he’d not taken my hesitation as affirmation and opened a door in the wall with a grateful smile. I took several steps forward only to see there was indeed a small fortune-telling establishment, its glass storefront proclaiming Madame Zara De La Lune offered palm readings for a shilling embedded in the very façade. I snorted at the absurdity of the Frenchwoman’s self-appointed appellation, lamenting the fact that Watson’s imbecilic literary agent seemed to have rubbed off on him with this newfound fascination for spiritualist claptrap, and did what any sensible consulting detective would do in a similar situation. 

I followed my Boswell inside.

The place reeked of incense and was cluttered with all manner of Near-Eastern curiosities, from djinni lamps, to tarot cards, statuettes of disremembered deities, and hanging beads which must have served some mystical purpose or another for all they dangled from every available rafter. 

In the midst of all this was Watson, seated at a rounded table whilst a firey-haired woman in the traditional garb of a gypsy traced invisible lines on his outstretched palm with her fingers. Suddenly, she dropped the proffered appendage as though it had burnt her, and very politely but firmly insisted he take his leave. 

I slid into a vacant chair beside him, and informed the gypsy that she either refund the doctor’s money or continue with the reading, for the poor fellow looked fairly disconsolate.

“Some things ought not be known! I return his coin, but please, your friend… his life line… it is… best you be on your way.”

“I imagine you would say anything to arouse the curiosity of your customers and, in so doing, have them loosen their purses.”

“It is not true!” she cried in some agitation. “You must believe me. Your friend is in danger. His life line ends this very evening!”

When the doctor and I raised an eyebrow of incredulity in tandem, she hurried off to one of her shelves, where a pot of cold tea was procured. This muddy brew she poured into a teacup at our table, and bade me drink it to the dregs. 

“What harm can it do, Holmes? And if it sets her mind at ease that I am not about to walk into my doom...”, he let that thought trail off.

“Very well,” I agreed, sniffing the foul concoction swishing about in my cup before swallowing, or rather, gagging on it, in one gulp. I pushed the empty cup over to the gypsy, who gasped and blanched immediately upon peering into it.

“Fate is against you!” She pointed at the doctor, though the cup, and thereby the fortune, should have been my own. 

“Now see here,” I said firmly. “I haven’t the faintest notion what you are on about but if that was my cup -”

“His demise is foretold in the leaves! I cannot manipulate fate, only interpret it, and I know when a man’s attachment to another soul is so strong that his friend’s imminent destiny can be read in his own fortune, for his death weighs heavily on your future, as well. Look for yourselves, then I beg you to go!”

Watson and I leant over the cup at the very same moment to observe the most clever bit of chicanery ever perpetrated. The tea leaves, instead of having clumped in a haphazard fashion, had somehow been arranged to appear in the form of a half-faced, grinning skull, its empty sockets fixated in the direction of the doctor.

“A fiendish trick, Watson, nothing more,” I reassured him, for my companion’s face had gone quite ashen. 

It took some cajoling to guide Watson back out into open air. He is not one to place his faith in such blatant spiritualist con-artistry, but the trick was designed to unsettle, and it had served its purpose well.

Once we navigated our way back out onto the Edgware Road, our destination was readily discernable, and towards it we strolled arm-in-arm, my companion’s mood lightening further with every step we took away from that dreadful fortune-teller. That was as well, for to-night we would set our snare, and he would require the lion’s share of his wherewithal when we encountered “Killer Evans”. 

Surely, no twaddle about the doctor meeting his end need apply.


End file.
